


The Dragon Has Three Heads

by visenyasdragons



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Aegon was never born, BAMF Lyanna Stark, Bran becomes three eyed crow, Character Death Fix, Everyone Is Alive, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Ignorant Ned, Jaime helped Elia and Rhaenys escape, Jon has a Twin Sister, Lyanna Stark Lives, Major Character Injury, Major character death - Freeform, Not for Catelyn fans, Other, Rhaegar Lives, Slow Burn, Stark Redemption, Targaryen Restoration, and everyone really, bc FUCK season 8 and what it did to them, bc i love them, but hes not crippled, but hes still the Kingslayer, but they're also not roberts, idk i changed a lot, obviously, oh also cerseis kids are not jaimes, or one-sided, plus more of the tyrells, some pairings are short lived, they have dragons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-01-13 10:08:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21242366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visenyasdragons/pseuds/visenyasdragons
Summary: Major fix-it fic, from the very beginning of the ASOIAF books. With some notable exceptions such as Joanna Lannister, everyone is alive, even if not everyone knows it.The year is 298 AC, Jon Snow and his twin sister Alysanne, or Alys, live in Winterfell as Brandon Starks bastards with their protector and long-time nursemaid, Wylla. Daenerys is on the run in Essos with her brother Viserys and niece Rhaenys, cared for by Elia Martell and Jaime Lannister. Robert Baratheon is on the Iron Throne in Kings Landing, with Cersei Lannister at his side. In Oldtown, a Dornishman called Rolly is studying under Maester Marwyn to learn the secrets of the Long Night and other magical mysteries the world has to offer. The roses of Highgarden plot, while the snakes of Dorne lay silently in the grass, ready to strike.Westeros is in the long summer, and the realm has been at peace since Robert Baratheon had taken the throne, but dark things are on the horizon. Our players take on new roles, secrets are revealed in shocking ways, and the old gods and new take a more active hand in the comings and goings of the realm. READ RELATIONSHIP TAGS FIRST!





	1. Alysanne I

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, hello! This is the first official fic I've written, so hopefully you guys enjoy! The main inspiration of this fic was the long-time theory that Meera Reed was Jon’s twin sister and hidden away in Greywater Watch. This was back before R+L=J was officially confirmed, but I always found it interesting. In my story though, his sister is an OC and Meera is just Meera, daughter of Howland and Jyana. Also, I really just wanted to explore a world of Westeros where so many key players weren’t dead or die in a tragic way so early on in the story. This doesn't mean everyone survives though! This first chapter is quite similar to the first JON I chapter in AGOT, but it's from another perspective. Let me know what you guys think!
> 
> Mix of book and show elements, but mostly book. Ages correspond with ASOIAF, not the show.

There were times, not very many, but a few, when Alys was glad to be a bastard. As she glanced Jon filling his wine cup once more from a passing flagon, she was struck by the thought that this might be one of them.

Jon settled back into place next to her on the bench, where they sat with the younger squires and pages of Winterfell. She spared a glance in his direction and found him smiling as he tasted the sweet summer wine brought up from the capital.

The Great Hall of Winterfell was hazy with smoke and heavy with the smell of roasted meat and fresh baked bread. The grey stone walls of the keep were draped with the banners of the royal court and the snarling direwolf of the Starks. A singer was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad, but down at this end of the hall his voice could scarcely be heard over the roar of the fire, the clang of pewter plates and cups, and the mutters of a hundred drunk conversations. If this were a typical Winterfell feast, Alys might have found herself as that singer, playing her high harp for her lord Uncle and her cousins, while Jon smiled at her proudly and sang along his bawdy drunken voice. She found herself grimacing that tonight couldn’t be one of those nights and grabbed her own cup of the sweet vintage being passed around.

It was the fourth hour of the welcome feast for the royal court. Alys’s trueborn cousins had been seated with the royal children, beneath the raised platform where Lord and Lady Stark hosted the king and queen. In honor of the occasion, her lord uncle would doubtless permit each child a glass of wine, but no more than that. Down here at the end of the hall, there was no one save Wylla to stop Alys and Jon from drinking their fill, and she was busy in the stables, caring for her mare.

She had not much of a thirst, but Jon certainly did, much to the delight of the younger squires who urged him on every time he drained his glass. They were truly fine company, and the little wine she did consume had her flushed and laughing along her brother at their tales of battle and bedding and the hunt. She was certain her and Jon were enjoying themselves more than her cousins were, seated with the royal children. The two of them agreed that their curiosity was more than sated at the beginning of the feast, where they stole a glance at them all as they made their entrance.

The queen seemed quite cold to Alys, a painted smile on her beautiful face, with a jeweled tiara glinting in her long golden hair. As beautiful and graceful as men said, but even Jon could see right through her smile. They shrugged at one another as she passed with their lord uncle.

The King himself had come next, with Lady Stark on his arm. He was a great disappointment to them both, although she was warned not to expect much. It seemed to her Jon was more forlorn about the fat king, as he always took great interest in Lord Eddard’s stories of the King from their youth. Wylla had tried more than a few times to dispel the image Jon had of the king, but Alys believed it didn’t take until her brother saw him for what he was. Walking like a man half in his cups, sweating under his unkempt beard and fine silks. She felt pity for him as his excitement drained and his mouth turned down in a frown of disgust.

After them came the children. Little Rickon was first, walking with all the dignity a three-year-old could muster. The two of them had to urge the boy on as he stopped to visit. After Rickon came Robb, looking handsome and lordly in his grey wool trimmed with white, the Stark colors. He had the princess Myrcella on his arm, a beauty truly, with golden ringlets cascading down from her sparkling hair net. She felt herself flush in anger at the shy looks she sent to Robb along the way and the timid smile she returned to him when he grinned at her like a fool. It was hard not to roll her eyes at her cousin.

Little Arya was next, escorting the crown prince Tommen with his white blond hair. Sansa was after on the arm of the heir to the throne, crown prince Joffrey. He was only a boy of twelve, but taller than Jon and Robb both, and beautiful to look at. He looked much like his mother as well, with the color of his sister’s hair and the Lannister green eyes. Sansa looked radiant at his side, smiling beautifully at the prince who barely spared her a glance. Handsome he might have been, but Alys misliked the way the boy glanced disdainfully around Winterfell’s Great Hall, as if it were beneath him.

The two of them were more interested in the guest that came next, the queen’s brother. The Imp of Casterly Rock, the Little Lion of House Lannister. Tyrion was struggling to keep pace with the rest of the retinue on his stunted legs, trying hard not to glance in the direction of the onlookers. They had heard much and more of the dwarf but looking at him now Alys felt nothing but pity. He wasn’t as ugly as they had made him out to be, nor was he as short. In truth she was quite eager to meet with him, as he intrigued her greatly. Jon watched him, fascinated.

When their uncle entered next, she felt Jon sigh next to her in dismay. He had been expecting the golden Lannister to make his appearance due to the rumors floating around the keep, but Jaime Lannister had been missing for near a decade now and was not present. His disappointment disappeared quickly as Uncle Benjen walked past and clipped the two of them on the ear, making them smile. Theon Greyjoy came last, ignoring Jon and Alys completely, but of course this was nothing new. Everyone had taken their seats then and toasts were given, welcoming the king and his court to Winterfell. Thanks were given and received, and the feast finally began.

Jon had started his drinking then as Alys started talking to the others at their table. She felt something bump against her legs and glanced down to see two pairs of eyes staring up at them, two bright red and two grey as the sky had been that day. “Hungry again?” Jon had asked. There was still half a honeyed chicken in the center of the table. He winked at Alys and reached forward to tear of the two legs, tossing them underneath for their wolves to devour. Her own wolf whined at her in dismay as Ghost tore through both legs himself, not wanting to share with his littermate. Alys knifed the rest of the chicken and tossed the carcass at Ash, pushing Ghost back when he went to steal the treat. She giggled at the indignant look her brothers wolf gave her, and Jon laughed long and hard at the scene.

Their cousins had not been permitted to bring their wolves to the feast, but as no one paid any attention to the twins at this end of the hall, there was not a word spoken to them about theirs. Alys felt they were lucky in that respect as well.

One of the Winterfell dogs made its way over to their table, smelling the chicken Alys had given to her pup. She ended up sharing part of the carcass with her brother, and the two of them stared at the black mongrel approaching them without fear. The dog snarled and snapped its jaw at the two, but their wolves stood firm. Jon was watching the confrontation as well, eyebrows raised at the dog that thought to challenge them. Ghost bared his fangs and Ash snarled at the dog, who tensed, barked one last time and then ran off to find other food. Ash licked her chops and settled back down to finish off the chicken. Ghost kept his eyes on the dog until he disappeared into the crowd.

Alys grinned at Jon and they both reached under the table to ruffle the fur on their wolves. Ghost nipped at Jon’s hand while Ash paid her no mind and kept at her meal.

“So, these are the famous direwolves I’ve heard so much about, hmm?” A familiar voice asked from behind.

Alys glanced up happily at her uncle as he ruffled the hair on both their heads, much like they had done to their wolves. “Yes,” she replied, “mine is Ash.” Jon shook off his uncle’s hand, not fond of having his hair mussed up. “Mine is Ghost.”

Benjen smiled at them both and moved onto the bench next to Jon as a squire made room for his liege lord’s brother. He grabbed Jon’s cup and took a swig. “Summerwine, nothing so sweet. How many cups have you had Jon?”

Alys rolled her eyes at her brother when he did nothing but grin at Benjen. He shook his head and laughed. “As I feared. Ah, well. I believe I was younger than you when I first got truly drunk.” He snagged an onion dripping of gravy from a trencher and bit into it as Alys tried not to giggle. Her own cup of summerwine making her blush like the young maiden she was.

Their uncle looked much like Lord Stark, but he was thin, and his face had sharper features from his time in the Night’s Watch. She was used to seeing him dressed in the black leathers and furs of the order, not the rich black velvet and fine boots that he graced tonight. “You look very handsome tonight Uncle,” she said to him sweetly. She wondered if her own lord father looked much like him, or closer to their uncle Ned. She shook herself of those thoughts mentally, determined not to allow thoughts of her father dampen her mood.

Benjen smiled at her with a gleam of laughter in his eyes. “I can see the summerwine has touched you as well sweet niece, for I haven’t looked handsome in years.” He laughed good naturedly and finished off his onion, as she blushed even harder and Jon started to giggle at her expense.

Ghost bumped up against Jon again and caught their uncle’s attention. “A quiet wolf he is,” he observed.

“He’s not like the others,” Jon explained. “Ash is nearly as small, but he was the runt of the litter and never makes a sound. It’s why I named him Ghost.” 

“There are still direwolves beyond the wall, we hear them on our rangings.” Benjen gave both of them a long look. “Don’t you two usually eat with your cousins at the table?”

Alys looked away back down to her plate and Jon took a swig from his cup. “Most times,” he answered in a flat voice. “But tonight Lady Stark thought it might give insult to the royal family to seat bastards among them.”

“I see.” Their uncle glanced over his shoulder to the raised table at the other end of the hall. Alys gripped her fork tightly in her hand until Jon laid his own on top of hers and squeezed gently. She let go and took a deep breath to quell the rage that manifested itself every time someone spoke of Catelyn Stark. Benjen turned back to the twins. “My brother doesn’t seem very festive tonight.”

Alys scarcely cared how festive Lord Stark was being, but Jon had mentioned so earlier as well so she turned her attention back to their uncle fully. Jon always told her bastards had to learn to notice things, to read the truth that people hid behind their eyes. Lord Stark acted as he usually did to Alys, but Jon was sure there was a tightness in him tonight that was seldom seen before. Of course, her mind was preoccupied with other things, and she may have just overlooked such an attitude change in their uncle. She supposed it had to do with the fact that she knew little of the relationship between him and the king. Jon cared much more for those stories, while Alys preferred listening to anything else other than the Rebellion.

“The queen is angry too,” Jon told their uncle in a low voice. “Lord Stark took the king down to the crypts this afternoon. The queen didn’t want him to go.”

This, Alys noticed. The queen was not as subtle as she undoubtably thought, if the two bastards of Winterfell were able to see such things. Benjen gave the two of them a careful, measured look. “You don’t miss much, do you, Jon? We could use a man like you on the Wall.”

It was as if a cold bucket of water were poured over Alys. Jon swelled with pride at the remark, but she felt that single statement blacken her mood like the roasted boar seated in front of the king. Benjen must have noticed the look on her face, but Jon was speaking before he could change the subject.

“Robb is the better lance, but I’m a stronger swordsman, and Hullen says I sit a horse as well as anyone in the castle.”

Benjen locked eyes with Alys again as she felt tears start to press on her lids. She scrubbed them roughly, ready to blame the hazy veil of smoke in the room should he ask. She doubted her uncle would be so fooled. Jon was still looking at him so Benjen shifted his attention once more, “notable achievements.”

“Take me with you when you go back to the Wall.” He said in a sudden rush. “Lord Stark will give me leave to go if you ask him, I know he will.”

Alys knew it was coming, but it still felt like a blow to the stomach. She could hardly stop the words from spilling from her mouth, “Jon, what are you thinking? You can’t go to the Wall!”

Her brother looked at her with hurt and disbelief written across his features. Benjen stepped in again before the two could get into a screaming match, as they were known to do when Jon mentioned his fancy for joining the Night’s Watch. “The wall is a hard place for a boy, Jon.”

He swiveled back to his Uncle, piercing him with the same indignant look. “I am nearly a man grown,” he protested. “I will turn fifteen on my next name day, and Maester Luwin has always told us bastards grow up faster than other children.”

“That’s true enough.” Her uncle replied with a frown, refilling his cup from a flagon and taking a long swig.

Alys regretted her own decision of tasting the sweet summerwine, as she felt tears spill down her cheeks out of her control. “You’re so stupid Jon, even at fifteen the Wall is no place for you!”

This is not the first time they’ve had this fight, but she rarely spoke in such a cutting way to her brother. Again, she blamed the wine. Jon ignored her, still looking at his uncle. “Daeren Targaryen was only fourteen when he conquered Dorne,” Jon said. Alys knew the Young Dragon was one of his heroes.

She went to reply again but Benjen spoke first. “A conquest that lasted a summer,” he pointed out. “Your Boy King lost ten thousand men taking the place, and another fifty trying to hold it. Someone should have told him that war isn’t a game.” He took another sip of wine and Alys tried to control her breathing. It seemed her uncle was on her side in this. “Also,” he said, wiping his mouth, “Daeren Targaryen was only eighteen when he died. Or have you forgotten that part?”

“I forget nothing,” Jon boasted. Alys rolled her eyes and took a steady breath. The wine was making Jon bold, and he consumed much of it. “I want to serve in the Night’s Watch, Uncle.”

Alys had nearly enough of this. “And what of it Jon?” She exploded. Her brother finally looked towards her again, startled to see the angry red tears tracking their way down her face. “We’ve been in the long summer for most of our lives, and you’re so green you could piss grass! What do you know of warfare, or how to battle wildings? You’re talented with a sword, aye, I won’t deny that.” Jon pursed his lips and sat straighter, glaring at her. “But your only experience with it is sparring with Ser Rodrick and the other boys in the courtyard! If you went to the wall, you would die alone and cold and with no more honor that what you have now.” She took another drink of her summerwine without thinking, needing to do something with her hands to stop herself from strangling her brother in front of the entire feast.

“You say there is nothing here for you at Winterfell, that there is no place for a bastard to earn his honor, but what about me? You would leave me alone, here, with no one and nothing so you could what? Freeze on top of the wall? Die at the hands of a bloodthirsty wilding? Those vows are for life Jon, I would never see you again.”

She was breathing hard by the time she finished and found that most of the table had fallen silent. Most of the squires at the table were looking at them. She knew she was embarrassing Jon, but right now she couldn’t care less.

Benjen was giving her a look of pity, but he was nodding his head ever so slightly. Jon’s eyes softened some, but she could tell he was still set on his decision. They were as close as two siblings could get, at times she even felt they could read each other’s minds. So, Jon didn’t need to say another word for Alys to understand what his next words would be. Before he had the chance to open his stupid mouth and break her heart even more she got up from the table and ran from the hall, Ash hot on her heels.

She did not look back to see Jon’s own eyes fill with angry tears, or the way Benjen turned her brother back towards him to speak to him softly. She didn’t see the baffled looks of their dinner companions, or the way the squires closest to them were snickering at her outburst. And she certainly didn’t look back to see Robb find her retreating form in the crowd from the high table, concern etched on his face.

The yard outside the Great Hall was quiet and empty. Her breath fogged in front of her face as she closed her eyes, trying to calm down.

The sounds of the music and laughter from the feast followed her out, it was the last thing she wanted to hear. She wiped her tears roughly on her dress sleeve, furious at herself for letting them fall, for getting so worked up in the first place. Alys couldn’t remember ever getting so angry at her brother. Even when they were fighting about the Night’s Watch, she was always able to control herself. She vowed to herself in the dark of the night that she would never drink again.

The summerwine must have been more potent than Alys realized, as she could barely walk in a straight line as she started to move forward. She stumbled and braced herself against a nearby pillar, breathing in the crisp air, trying to calm her racing heart and get her bearings straight.

As soon as the ground stopped swimming in front of her, she began moving again, wanting to get away from the Great Hall. She quickly found herself nearing the stables, looking for the one person that could truly understand why she was so upset.

Before she could get there, Wylla came around the bend in the corner whistling softly to herself. Alys recognized the mournful tune, northern, but for the life of her she could not place the name of it. For a moment she didn’t see her, and Alys contemplated just returning to her room. As much as she wished it, Wylla was only their nursemaid, not their mother, and well within her rights to leave them any day now that they were nearly grown.

She was not her mother, and would never be, and Alys should have known better than to seek her out for comfort. For something that Jon was entitled to do, a decision he was able to make for himself. Wylla could not convince him of anything, nor should she have to hold Alys and wipe her tears. It was a foolish thought, one that only happened because of the cursed wine. It made her weak and weepy, and Alys despised herself for it.

Making her decision, she turned quickly to leave, but tripped over her own foot and squeaked out in fear as she fell hard on the ground. The cold packed earth bit into her arm and a sharp pain went up her shoulder. She didn’t cry out, but the tears came again, and that made Alys even more angry than before. Ash barked in protest and nosed her under the arm, trying to help her up.

A wet nose was replaced with soft hands and Wylla’s concerned voice. She laughed at her softly. “Oh my, it looks like someone might be a bit drunk.” Her tinkling laugh rang out into the cold, empty air. “What are you doing over here sweetling, isn’t the feast still going on?”

At this point, Alys was up on her feet, and turned towards Wylla hesitantly. She knew she looked a fright, and only hoped the dark of the night and the soft glow of the lanterns could hide her disheveled appearance easily enough. The look on Wylla’s face told her it didn’t.

“Let me take you back to your chambers, get you some tea.” She wrapped her arm around Alys’s own and began their walk to her small room. She didn’t say anything of her tears or her mussed up hair, the braids undone by the drink and the fall she had.

She knew Wylla must have noticed there was something wrong, but she made no mention of it, instead making small talk about the horses and her mare Winter all the way to her chambers.

They saw no one on their way, not Jon or Benjen, or any of the feast guests, and Alys was grateful for it. She had embarrassed herself enough in the Great Hall, she couldn’t bare to cause more shame upon her lord uncle.

They entered the room and Wylla sat her near the hearth, getting a fire blazing while Alys picked at the rest of her braids, trying to smooth down what she could. Soon it was warm and bright, the hot tea Wylla had made for her had chased away much of her discomfort, and she felt much better.

She waited patiently while Alys sipped at her cup, straightening out her things and getting her night clothes ready. By the time she was finished Wylla’s patience had run out as well. “Are you going to tell me what’s happened, or do I have to guess?”

Alys sighed softly and told Wylla her tale in a soft voice. She moved to sit next to her and grabbed her hand during it, looking weary and resigned by the time she finished speaking. “That boy will be the death of me surely.”

They sat for a few moments in silence before Wylla spoke up again. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that Jon is well within his rights to make such a decision. Though it makes me no more glad than you. If I could I would keep the both of you safe with me, forever, I would.” She sighed sadly. “I’ve watched the two of you grow your entire lives, and always feared this day. The day when you would go off on your own, to make your own lives, to find your own destinies. Truly, I thought I had more time.” She chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “I imagine your Uncle Benjen couldn’t change his mind either?”

Alys shook her head. “I think he agreed with me, with what I was saying. But Jon is, he’s adamant Wylla. Even Benjen’s warnings fell on deaf ears. He doesn’t seem to think there’s any other option for him, no other future ahead besides being a man of the Night’s Watch.”

She wrung her hands while Wylla sat there looking thoughtful. “And if we gave him another option?”

She looked up at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Wylla smiled softly, a thoughtful look on her face. “You say he thinks he has no other purpose, no other path laid out for him. I might not know much in this world, but I do know that’s the furthest from the truth.” She sighed and patted Alys on the hand. “Let me talk to Lord Stark, see if there are other accommodations we can make.”

Alys smiled gratefully at her but did not voice the thought in her head that Jon wouldn’t care either way. He would not stay at Winterfell, especially now that Lord Stark is leaving to King’s Landing.

It’s as if Wylla read her mind as well, “I know much of this decision is due to Lady Stark. But let me deal with that as well.” She laughed at the look on Alys’s face. “How much do you think you two can really hide from me? I know well enough how you feel about Lady Stark. I have some thoughts of mine own on Lord Starks wife to be truthful.”

She felt herself gaping at Wylla, never had she been so outspoken on Lady Stark before. Well, at least in front of her. She went to open her mouth but Wylla beat her to it, bidding her to get some rest and leave everything else up to her.

The moment she was left alone she felt the fight drain out of her. The day had been long and weary, and she was full on an assortment of rich dishes, the summerwine and the tea Wylla made for her. After taking the time to dress for bed she added another log to her fire and crawled under the furs. Ash joined her at the foot of the bed, draped across her legs.

As soon as her head hit the pillow, she felt the weariness take her over and her eyelids begin to droop. The last fleeting thought she had before falling unconscious was that despite what words were said, she felt another Stark would be heading to the wall before winter was here.


	2. Daenerys I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, has it been a minute or what? So sorry everyone for the delay in uploading more of this story. I hit some serious writers block in my last few months of pregnancy, and then I had my baby in February! She's nearly four months now, so I have more time to write and get back to it. Anyways, this chapter has a lot from the first Daenerys chapter in AGOT, with some added changes. All credit goes to George RR Martin himself! Enjoy :)

Her brother held up the gown for her inspection. “This is beauty. Touch it, go on. Caress the fabric.”

Dany hesitated before moving closer to her brother to touch it. The cloth was so smooth that it seemed to run through her fingers like water. She could not remember ever wearing something so soft, and Elia provided much and more for her over the years when it came to gowns and finery. It frightened her. She pulled her hand away, resisting the temptation to scowl at her brother. “Is it really mine?”

“A gift from the Magister Illyrio,” Viserys said, smiling. Her brother was in a high mood tonight. “The color will bring out the violet in your eyes. And you shall have gold as well, and jewels of all sorts. Illyrio has promised. Tonight, you must look like a princess.”

_A princess_, Dany scowled at the thought. She had forgotten what that was like. Perhaps she had never really known. She found herself longing for the simple jewels that Jaime had gifted her a few namedays ago, and her mothers ring. She had no wish to take this Magisters gold and trinkets, surely meant as payment to soothe her protests against the marriage she was being forced into. For what felt like the thousandth time that day, she ached for Jaime. He would never let something like this happen to her.

Viserys was still waiting on her for a response. “What does he want from us?” she asked. “He gives us so much.”

For nigh on half the year the two of them had been here, eating his food, pampered by his servants. Dany was only but a girl of thirteen, but her good sister and niece made sure she was not a fool when it came to surviving this world as an exiled princess. This magister wanted something from the two of them, but penniless and on the run as they were, there was nothing the two of them could offer.

“Illyrio is no fool,” Viserys said. He was more gaunt than usual, with nervous hands and a feverish look in his pale lilac eyes. “The magister knows that I will not forget my friends when I come into my throne.”

Dany said nothing, fighting back the urge to spew out the truths that she knew. It would do no good. Viserys was convinced of his claim to the throne and if she spilled those secrets, it would only enrage him further. She needed the peace tonight, his anger was a terrible thing when roused. Viserys called it “waking the dragon.”

She could practically hear Jaime’s scoff at the sentiment, could see Elia’s hidden eye roll and Rhaenys snort of derision. It made her ache with sadness.

Her brother hung the gown beside the door. “Illyrio will send the slaves to bathe you. Be sure you wash off the stink of the stables. Khal Drogo has a thousand horses, tonight he looks for a different sort of mount.” He stood back and studied her critically. “You still slouch, even with that half-breeds direction and tutorship.” He pushed back her shoulders with his hands. “You would think she would be good for at least that, if not her than her mother.” He scowled fiercely before his fingers began to brush over her breasts. Dany kept her face calm and expressionless, lest Viserys wake the dragon in _her_ with his comments. “Let them see you have a woman’s body now.”

Suddenly he looked back up at her with a hard look in his eyes. “You will not fail me tonight, as everyone else has. If you do, it will go hard for you. You don’t want to wake the dragon, do you?” He pinched her nipple painfully, twisting it hard. She dared not flinch. “Do you?” He repeated.

“No,” Dany said meekly.

Her brother smiled. “Good.” He moved his hand to her hair, touching it softly, almost with affection. “When they write the history of my reign, sweet sister, they will say it began tonight.”

When he was gone, she let out of sigh of relief and sadness, wondering just when it was that she became so frightened of her own brother. She moved to her window and looked down wistfully at the waters of the bay. She could hear the singing of the red priests as they lit their night fires and the shouts of ragged children playing games beyond the walls of the estate. For a moment she wished she could be out there with them, barefoot and breathless and dressed in tatters, with no past and no future and no feast to attend at Khal Drogo’s manse.

She longed for the soft touch of Elia’s hands as she braided and brushed out her hair, for the laughter between her and Jaime as they japed and traded barbs back and forth. She wished to see her niece again, for her gentle wit and fierce fire that Viserys seemed to always stoke. They would no doubt be in the courtyard competing with their bows, practicing their swordplay under Jaime’s watchful eye. Daenerys was no good at it, but Jaime had been adamant that she learned to at least protect herself, just basics. She sighed softly. She wouldn’t even have minded practicing her embroidery once again, if it meant she could see her niece and Elia once more. They were long gone though, and Daenerys would never see them again. It was just her now, her and her brother fighting for their lives.

Across the narrow sea she was gazing at, lay a land of green hills and flowered plains and great rushing rivers, where towers of dark stone rose amidst magnificent blue-grey mountains, and armored knights rode to battle beneath the banners of their lords. She knew the Dothraki called that land Rhaesh Andahli, the land of the Andals. In the Free Cities, they talked of Westeros and the Sunset Kingdoms. Her brother had a simpler name. “Our land,” he called it. The words were like a prayer with him. If he said them enough, the gods were sure to hear. “Ours by blood right, taken from us by treachery, but ours still, ours forever. You do not steal from the dragon, oh, no. The dragon remembers.”

And perhaps the dragon did remember, and maybe even Viserys himself, but Daenerys could not. She had never seen this land her brother said was theirs, this realm beyond the narrow sea. But Jaime had lived there all his life, as did her niece and her mother. The lands of Casterly Rock and Dorne sounded wonderful and beautiful, but she could not picture it herself.

Rhaenys liked to tell her stories of the ancestral home of the Targaryens, as Dragonstone was where she lived for most of those last years, with its dragon carved walls and great volcanoes. Daenerys had only even been there once, when she was first born. They escaped that very night into a fierce storm, barely missing the Usurper’s fleet coming for them. She was but a baby though, and it was not something she remembered. Dany longed to go back, to see where she was born, to once again be home, but she wasn’t so sure it would feel that way now.

The capital surely never would feel like home to Dany. None of her family liked to talk much of King’s Landing, but what she has heard has not been pleasant. So much horror had happened within the Red Keep’s walls, and from what little she’d been told, she found that she had no great desire to see the capital. She could see the haunted look that graced Jaime’s features anytime she asked, and Rhaenys was not shy about telling her side of the tales the adults didn’t mention. Of course, her brother believed none of it and liked to try and dissuade Dany from listening to anyone but him, but she knew in her heart they were telling the truth.

Her father was a mad man, the Mad King, and she was glad he was gone. The way he tortured and hurt her family, and the people of the city, made her feel physically ill. Her mother, on the other hand, was a beautiful and graceful woman, and left the world too soon for Dany to truly know her, but she knew she was good and kind, everything a Queen and mother should be. She could only remember glimpses of their lady mother, being quite young when she passed at their first manse in Braavos, but she loved her fiercely all the same. Jaime and Elia told her many stories as she grew into the young woman she is today, and it warmed her heart to have them. Of course, she no longer did, and that thought threatened to pull her mood down, her eyes filling with tears.

There was so much she had lost in her young life, starting with good Ser Willem when they arrived in Braavos, at the house with the red door. They had stayed there longer than expected, but soon when the coin ran out and Jaime had left for his campaign with a local sellsword company, they had been run out by the servants, much of their belongings being stolen from them. Dany remembered crying when the red door closed behind her forever.

Their little group had wandered ever since then, from Braavos to Myr, from Myr to Tyrosh, and on to Qohor and Volantis and Lys, never staying long in any one place. Dany had not truly seen the wisdom in moving so much, but as she grew older she began to understand. Their entire family was in danger from the usurper. Everyone had some sort of claim or relation to the Iron Throne, threatening the peace the Seven Kingdoms found after the reign of her father. The only one of their group that had no desire or claim was Jaime, but even he was in danger of being found. Dany had heard much and more of Tywin Lannister, and knew that if he were to find Jaime, he would be taken from them forever, which he assured her repeatedly would never happen. But then it did.

She tried not to think about the night of their escape from Lys, but found her mind drifting towards the memories anyways.

Dany was woken in the dead of night by her brother, frantic and terrified as he pulled her from her bed roughly. The usurper had found them, he said, and his hired knives were already inside the manse. The fear clawed up her throat and left her mute, though she desperately wanted to ask about Rhaenys, who was supposed to be in the room with her. Viserys had thrown a black cloak on Dany, shielding her and obscuring her vision, and before she knew realized fully what was happening, they were running. She was led out of the manse through a set of servant passages, the darkness cloying and suffocating her, making it hard to breathe from the fear. When they finally emerged near the docks and boarded a ship, she was well and truly scared.

Then the true fear came, when her brother had told her that the assassins killed them all, Jaime and Elia both, and her niece. She remembered him being oddly calm about it all, especially once they were on the boat, but Dany had no such luck. She collapsed to her knees in grief, too shocked to even cry at first. The rest of the night blurred in activity, and she was taken to a room to rest and recover from the fright.

The next few weeks of travel were the worst of Dany’s life, as she had never been so devastated. Viserys tried to console her but did a poor job as he had nothing to say of their family but admonishments and thinly veiled insults at Jaime’s fighting prowess. Her fog of grief didn’t let her think clearly, so she never fought back with him on his word, but she remembered how insulted she felt when he made those accusations. Jaime had been the best fighter and knight she had ever seen, and she knew without a doubt that if he fell to the assassins, it was hard won.

Their life with Jaime and Elia had not been the most pleasant for most highborn, but it had been comfortable enough, and Dany could not remember wanting for much of anything. However, after that fateful night, life turned harder and crueler.

It had only been about a year since that night, but until they found the hospitality of Magister Illyrio in Pentos, her and Viserys had bounced from city to city, selling what little they had to get by. Eventually, they even had to sell her mothers crown, something she never thought her brother would do. In the alleys and wine sinks of Pentos, they called her brother “the beggar king.” Dany did not want to know what they called her.

“We will have it all back someday, sweet sister,” he would promise her. Sometimes his hands shook when he talked about it. “The jewels and the silks, Dragonstone and King’s Landing, the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms, all they have taken from us, we will have it back.” Viserys lived for that day. All that Daenerys wanted back was her family, and the house with the red door, the childhood she had but a glimpse of, before Robert Baratheon took it from her.

There came a soft knock on the door. “Come,” Dany said, turning away from the window. Illyrio’s servants entered, bowed, and set about their business. They were slaves, a gift from one of the magister’s many Dothraki friends. There was no slavery in the free city of Pentos. Nonetheless, they were slaves. The old woman, small and grey as a mouse, never said a word, but the girl made up for it. She was Illyrio’s favorite, a fair-haired, blue-eyed wench of sixteen who chattered constantly as she worked.

They filled her bath with hot water brought up from the kitchen and scented it with fragrant oils. The girl helped her into the tub. The water was scalding hot, but Daenerys did not flinch or cry out. She liked the heat, it made her feel clean. She smiled as she thought of what her brother used to tell her. “Ours is the house of the dragon,” he would say. “The fire is in our blood.” Rhaenys would always chime in, “and I am the blood of the dragon, and the sun. Find a heat I cannot withstand.” Viserys would huff in frustration, and Daenerys would laugh in delight.

The old woman washed her long, silver hair and gently combed out the snags, all in silence. The girl scrubbed her back and her feet and told her how lucky she was. “Drogo is so rich that even his slaves wear golden collars. A hundred thousand men ride in his khalasar, and his palace in Vaes Dothrak has two hundred rooms and doors of solid silver.” There was more like that, so much more, what a handsome man the khal was, so tall and fierce, fearless in battle, the best rider ever to mount a horse, a demon archer. Daenerys said nothing. She had always assumed she would wed Viserys if anyone, although Jaime was always fiercely against the idea. For centuries Targaryens would wed brother and sister to keep the bloodlines pure. Viserys would tell her theirs was the kingsblood, it was not to be tainted or mingled with the blood of lesser men. This always made her bristle in anger, as her niece was of the blood of Targaryen and Martell, and it only made her niece more formidable. But Dany knew the way of the world, and since her parents were now gone, Viserys was in charge of her marriage prospects. As much as she considered Jaime a father to her, he would never truly be one, and thus he did not have a say. Yet now here she was, a product of her brothers’ scheme to be sold off to a stranger, a barbarian.

When she was clean, the slaves helped her from the water and toweled her dry. The girl brushed her hair until it shone like molten silver, while the old woman anointed her with the spiceflower perfume of the Dothraki plains. They dressed her in the wisps that Magister Illyrio had sent up, and then the gown, a deep plum silk to bring out the violet in her eyes. The girl slid the gilded sandals on her feet, while the old woman fixed the tiara in her hair, and slid golden bracelets crusted with amethysts around her wrists. Last of all came the collar, a heavy golden torc emblazoned with ancient Valyrian glyphs.

“Now you look all a princess,” the girl said breathlessly. Dany glanced at her image in the silvered looking glass that Illyrio had provided. A princess, she thought, but she remembered what the girl had said, how Khal Drogo was so rich even his slaves wore golden collars. She felt a sudden chill, and gooseflesh pimpled her bare arms.

Her brother was waiting in the cool of the entry hall, seated on the edge of the pool, his hand trailing in the water. He rose when she appeared and looked her over critically. “Stand there,” he told her. “Turn around. Yes. Good. You look…”

“Regal,” Magister Illyrio said, stepping through an archway. He moved with surprising delicacy for such a massive man. Beneath loose garments of flame-colored silk, rolls of fat jiggled as he walked. Gemstones glittered on every finger, and his man had oiled his forked yellow beard until it shone like real gold. “May the Lord of Light shower you with blessings on this most fortunate day, Princess Daenerys,” the magister said as he took her hand. He bowed his head, showing a thin glimpse of crooked yellow teeth through the gold of his beard. “She is a vision, Your Grace, a vision,” he told her brother. “Drogo will be enraptured.”

“She’s too skinny,” Viserys said. His hair, the same silver blond as hers, had been pulled back tightly behind his head and fastened with a dragonbone brooch. It was a severe look that emphasized the hard, gaunt lines of his face. “Are you sure that Khal Drogo likes his women this young?”

“She has had her blood. She is old enough for the khal.” He told him, not for the first time. “Look at her, with her silver-gold hair, those purple eyes… she is the blood of old Valyria, no doubt… and highborn, daughter of the old king, sister to the new, she cannot fail to entrance our Drogo.” When he released her hand, Daenerys found herself trembling.

“I suppose,” her brother said doubtfully. “The savages have queer tastes. Boys, horses, sheep…”

“Best not suggest this to Khal Drogo,” Illyrio said.

Anger flashed in her brothers’ lilac eyes. “Do you take me for a fool?”

_Yes,_ Dany thought. The magister bowed slightly. “I take you for a king. Kings lack the caution of common men. My apologies if I have given offense.” He turned away and clapped his hands for his bearers.

The streets of Pentos were pitch dark when they set out in Illyrios elaborately carved palanquin. Two servants went ahead to light their way, carrying ornate oil lanterns with panes of pale blue glass, while a dozen strong men hoisted the poles to their shoulders. It was warm and close inside behind the curtains. She felt the walls pressing on her, the cloying perfume of the Magister making her ill.

Her brother, sprawled out on his pillows beside her, never noticed her discomfort. His mind was away across the narrow sea. “We won’t need his whole khalasar,” Viserys said. His fingers toyed with the hilt of his borrowed bade, thought Dany knew he had no real skill with the weapon, despite Jaime’s efforts to teach him. “Ten thousand, that would be enough, I could sweep the Seven Kingdoms with ten thousand Dothraki screamers. The realm will rise for its rightful king. Tyrell, Redwyne, Darry, Greyjoy, they have no more love for the Usurper than I do. The Dornishmen are indebted to us because of Elia and Rhaenys. And the smallfolk will be with us. They cry out for their king.” He looked at Illyrio anxiously. “They do, don’t they?”

Dany interrupted before Illyrio could respond, knowing full well the people of Westeros did not drink secret toasts to their health as he liked to claim. She had something more important to ask her brother. “Have you sent word to Doran and Oberyn in Sunspear? They would want to know what befell Elia and our niece back in Lys.”

Viserys shot his feverish gaze to her in surprise, clearly not expecting her to speak. “Sweet sister, that is of no concern to you. You need not worry about the affairs of the realm, that is for your king to handle. You just play your part.” He patted her dismissively on the hand and turned his attention back to Illyrio. Dany bit her tongue to avoid pulling her hand away.

Illyrio responded to her brother as if she didn’t speak at all. “They are your people, and they love you well,” he said amiably, not for the first time. “In holdfasts all across the realm, men lift secret toasts to your health while women sew dragon banners and hide them against the day of your return from across the water.” She nearly rolled her eyes at the man. He gave a massive shrug. “Or so my agents tell me.”

_They lie to you then, or you lie to us_, Dany thought. She had no agents herself, but everything she had learned from her protectors growing up has taught her to be mistrustful of such words, especially by men such as Illyrio. Jaime always told her the people of their land cared not for who ruled the capital. They prayed for a good harvest, a never ending summer and full bellies at night. The high lords played their games through the years, and the smallfolk just tried to survive their way through it. She found it was sound advice, but of course her brother thought otherwise, and took no stock in anything Jaime or Elia had to say. He nodded at Illyrio eagerly. “I shall kill the Usurper myself,” he promised, who had never killed anyone, “as he killed my brother Rhaegar. And the old Lannister too, for what he did to my father.”

“That would be most fitting,” Magister Illyrio said. Dany saw the smallest hint of a smile playing around his lips, but her brother did not notice. She was sure he knew as well as she did that Viserys was no match against Tywin Lannister. And truthfully, after the things she’s heard of her father, she did not hold it against the man for ridding the world of his evil. And yet, she still had her doubts that Tywin was truly the one responsible for her father’s suspicious passing.

The nine-towered manse of Khal Drogo sat beside the waters of the bay, its high brick walls overgrown with pale ivy. It had been given to the khal by the magisters of Pentos, Illyrio told them. Their palanquin was stopped at the gate, the curtains pulled roughly back by one of the house guards. Magister Illyrio growled something to him in the rough tongue of Dothraki; the guardsman replied in the same voice and waved them through the gates.

Dany noticed that her brother’s hand was clenched around the hilt of the borrowed blade he carried. He looked as frightened as she felt. “Insolent eunuch,” Viserys muttered as they lurched up the manse.

Magister Illyrio’s words were honeyed. “Many important men will be here at the feast tonight. Such men have enemies. The khal must protect his guests, yourself chief among them, Your Grace. No doubt the Usurper would pay well for your head.”

“Oh, yes,” Viserys said darkly. Dany felt the pit in her stomach deepen. “He has tried, Illyrio, I promise you that. His hired knives follow us everywhere, even managed to kill our half-breed niece and her mother, with that oaf Jamie Lannister, as you well know of course. I am the last dragon now, and he will not sleep easy while I live.”

She felt the Magisters eyes on her, so she fought to control her expression, keeping it cool and blank, lest she give away her true thoughts.

The palanquin slowed and stopped. The curtains were thrown back and a slave offered a hand to help Daenerys out. His collar, she noted, was ordinary bronze. She felt her own ornate collar weigh heavy on her chest as she descended. Her brother followed her out and then the Magister, helped by two of the stronger slaves.

They were escorted inside the manse to the entry hall, where a mosaic of colored glass depicted the Doom of Valyria. Oil burned in black iron lanterns all along the walls. Beneath an arch of twining stone leaves, a eunuch sang their coming. “Viserys of the House Targaryen, the Third of his Name,” he called in a high sweet voice, “King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. His sister, Daenerys Stormborn, Princess of Dragonstone. His honorable host, Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of the Free City of Pentos.”

They stepped past him into a pillared courtyard overgrown in pale ivy. Moonlight painted the leaves in shades of bone and silver as the guests drifted among them. Many were Dothraki horselords, big men with red-brown skin, their drooping mustaches bound in metal rings, their black hair oiled and braided and hung with bells. Yet among them moved bravos and sellswords from Pentos and Myr and Tyrosh, a red priest even fatter than Illyrio, lords from the Summer Isles with skin as black as ebony. A man half-facing her caught her eye, with tanned skin and blond hair, dressed in the riches of Pentos slowly sipping some wine as he looked everywhere but towards them. The jolt of recognition she felt for the man disappeared quickly as the crowd moved around them and she lost sight. With a start, she suddenly realized she was the only woman there.

Illyrio whispered to them. “Those three are Drogo’s bloodriders, there,” he said. “By the pillar is Khal Moro, with his son Rhogoro. The man with the green beard is brother to the Archon of Tyrosh, and the man behind him is Ser Jorah Mormont.”

The last name caught Daenerys. “A knight?”

“No less.” Illyrio smiled through his beard. “Anointed with the seven oils by the High Septon himself.”

“What is he doing here?” she asked, instantly suspicious of this man.

“The usurper wanted his head,” Illyrio told them. “Some trifling affront. He sold some poachers to a Tyroshi slaver instead of giving them to the Night’s Watch. Absurd law. A man should be able to do as he likes with his own chattel.”

“I shall speak with Ser Jorah before the night is done,” her brother said. Dany found herself looking at the knight curiously. He was an older man, past forty and balding, but still strong and fit. Instead of silks and cottons, he wore wool and leather. His tunic was a dark green, embroidered with the likeness of a black bear standing on two legs. _House Mormont_, she finally recalled. _A northern house, of Bear Island_. _So he is indeed Westerosi._ He reminded her so fiercely of Jaime in that moment it took her breath away. Though they looked nothing alike, they were both knights with blond hair, and of age with one another. It pulled at her emotional tether enough to make tears form in her eyes.

She tore her eyes away from the strange northern knight just as the Magister placed a moist palm on her shoulder. “Over there, sweet princess,” he whispered, “there is the khal himself.”

Dany wanted to run and hide, but her brother was looking at her, and she dared not displease him lest she wake the dragon. Anxiously, she turned looked at the man Viserys hoped would ask to wed her before the night was done.

The slave girl had not been far wrong, Dany thought. Khal Drogo was a head taller than the tallest man in the room, yet somehow light on his feet, as graceful as a panther. He was younger than she’d thought, no more than thirty. His skin was the color of polished copper, his thick mustachios bound with gold and bronze rings.

“I must go and make my submissions,” Magister Illyrio said. “Wait here. I shall bring him to you.”

Her brother took her arm by the arm as Illyrio waddled over to the khal, his fingers squeezing so hard that they hurt. “Do you,”

She looked up at him as he cut himself off mid-sentence, and followed his gaze not towards the khal, but back towards the man she had noticed earlier. His face was still hidden in the shadows of ivy-covered pillar he stood by, but he was much closer than before, lightly fingering the hilt on his sword and facing towards them. Viserys clearly thought him a threat with the way he stiffened, his eyes narrowing in suspicion and… fear? She glanced back at the man in time to see his cloak swirl away. The pressure on her arm was being released as her brother blew out a breath.

She opened her mouth to question her brother, but he shook his head and went back to talking to her about the khal, effectively cutting her off. She hardly listened to him as she finally put a finger on the expression clouding her brothers face. Oddly enough, it seemed to her like recognition.

“-He is Aegon the Dragonlord come again, and you will be his queen.” He said, her attention snapping back to him with that sentence. She nearly laughed at him, but knowing it would only enrage her brother, she sealed her mouth into a thin line and nodded instead.

Once more she found herself wondering if she was making a wise decision to keep Elia’s secret from Viserys. He had not always been so unreasonable, but she wondered if _he_ was wise enough to see the advantage this news would give them. She could be selfish, tell him solely to save herself from a loveless marriage with this handsome but fearsome brute, but just as quickly as she thought of it, she dismissed the thought. If he even believed her, he would surely have their nephew killed, with his sister, and anyone in on the plot to keep them safe. Elia trusted Dany with the information, and she would protect that and her remaining family with everything she had in her, even if it was from her own brother.

Trying to distract herself from her thoughts, she went back to looking at her future husband as Viserys prattled on about the khal’s accomplishments.

His face was hard and cruel, his eyes cold and dark. Her brother would hurt her sometimes when she woke the dragon, something she was only just getting used to as he never did it before in company of Jamie and Elia, but he did not frighten her the way Drogo did. “I don’t want to be his queen,” she heard herself say in a small voice, not meaning to speak out loud. Viserys whipped his head towards her with a menacing glare.

His hands shook from where they held her arm. “How else are we to go home, sweet sister? They took our home from us!” He drew her into the shadows out of sight. She couldn’t help her next words from spilling out, “we had a home Vis, a real one, even if we were moving from city to city. Maybe we can find another one, with just us?”

His fingers tightened on her arm and he gave her a look of absolute fury. “You dare not say that to me again. You dare not suggest those half breed Dornish mongrels and that Lannister disgrace ever gave you what I could give you. That was your idea of home? No, I tell you what our true home is, and that is across the narrow sea, with me on my rightful throne. They never would have gotten us there and I would never be king.”

_You’re no king!_ She wanted to scream. Instead she bit out, “Maybe that would have been for the best.” Viserys looked at her in shock, his face getting red. She half expected a slap, but her brother at least had the sense to not make a scene. Instead he seemed to try and set her ablaze solely with his expression. His mouth was twisted in displeasure, his eyes wide and bright as he gave her such a look of loathing, she felt her eyes well with tears.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that to me. Now listen closely, sweet sister, and I will tell you how we get _home,_” he said sharply. “We go home with an army, with Khal Drogo’s army. And if you must wed him and bed him for that, you will.” He smiled at her. “You may have loved them more than me, but I am all you have left.” He tightened his grip on her and she fought to control her breathing. “I would let his whole khalasar fuck you if need be, all forty-thousand men, and their horses too if that was what it took to get my army. Be grateful it is only Drogo. In time you may even learn to like him. Now dry your eyes. Illyrio is bringing him over, and he will _not _see you crying.”

She turned to see her brother spoke true. Magister Illyrio, all smiles and bows, was escorting Khal Drogo over to where they stood. She brushed away the unfallen tears with the back of her hand.

“Smile,” Viserys whispered nervously, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword. “And stand up straight. Let him see that you have breasts. Gods know, you have little enough as it is.”

Daenerys smiled, and stood up straight.


End file.
